Almost
by daxmii
Summary: A murderous maid-for-hire is somewhere in the streets of London, and Mrs. Hudson hires her to clean Sherlock's disastrous flat. [Johnlock]
1. The War at 221B

It was good to get his mind off of it.

When Lestrade had phoned saying he had a case, Sherlock knew immediately, per usual, that the situation was pressing. Mrs. Hudson scolded him for being so excited about a murder, but the eager gleam he usually acquired when he took a new case never left his eyes.

"An actual case, Mrs. Hudson!" the detective exclaimed, grabbing the landlady's face for emphasis. "I haven't had one in ages."

Before John could protest, he demanded they take a cab to Scotland Yard – except John wasn't exactly there to protest. During his trip in the cab, Sherlock's mind already raced with solutions to the crime based off of what information Lestrade had been able to offer him.

A young woman who had just moved to London from Salisbury by the name of Tara Donaldson came home from her daily job – a bartender – and was discovered dead by her neighbor after having heard a scream coming from Tara's flat. There was no sign of a break-in, forced entry, or struggle, but there also were no signs displaying that Tara committed suicide. She had been stabbed – three times, in the chest, stomach, and left thigh – to death, so there had to be a murderer. But who?

His thoughts were interrupted by an abrupt slam on the breaks. The cabbie briefly apologized, explaining that traffic was "generally bloody awful on this street." His apology was disregarded as Sherlock pressed his fingers back together and rested his chin on them – his standard position for thinking or retreating to his mind palace. John nudged him on the knee, reprimanding him, reminding him not to be rude.

With a quick eye roll, Sherlock uttered, "It's quite alright." It took the detective a good moment to realize that the army doctor hadn't actually been there.

Not more than five minutes after, the cab arrived at the crime scene – a small apartment building on a crowded street. The detective made a mental note: Crowded. The murderer could enter without going through much trouble.

Sally announced his arrival at the scene with the ceremonious call, "Freak's here!"

With a quick greeting from DI Lestrade, Sherlock was ushered inside. He made his way around Tara's kitchen, noting a few things. Knives are kept in a secluded drawer, none of them in the open. Island in the middle of the kitchen, rather hard to maneuver around. Uncooked lasagna left in the oven.

"So," Lestrade interjected. "What've you gotten so far?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, careful not to let the sides of his lips curl up too far. This had always been his favorite part of every case. "The weapon is here, but it isn't out in the open. There are knives kept in this drawer. To be precise, the bread knife is kept in this drawer. The stab wounds were jagged, but not unclean. What was the murder weapon? This bread knife. Cleaned in the sink and put back in the drawer after the deed was done.

"But why would the murderer use the bread knife? Tara knew the murderer, probably a flatmate, friend or a love interest. Someone who knew their way around the kitchen. There's uncooked lasagna in the oven. She was probably planning to have them over for dinner, but something came up. A domestic, maybe. The thought to murder Tara had risen quickly in the murderer's head, so they opened the drawer, took the first knife available, and stabbed her to death with it without a second thought.

"The only question is, who killed her? The possibility of a flatmate is ruled out; there's one chair in the lounge and an insufficient amount of plates and cutlery in the cupboards to supply for two people. A friend, maybe, but a love interest more likely. A love interest would visit more frequently and would know their way around the flat."

John rolled his eyes. "Quit showing off."

"It could be a housekeeper," Lestrade declared absent-mindedly in his futile attempt to keep up with Sherlock's racing train of thought. The detective's eyes scanned the kitchen – no John Watson in the vicinity. It took him a moment to register the DI's statement.

"Say that again," he muttered, spinning to meet his gaze.

"I said," Lestrade began to concede, "it could be a housekeeper."

With one swift motion, Sherlock reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his phone. He praised and named Lestrade a genius as he typed into the search bar, "Lydia Ingram." The forty-three-year-old maid-for-hire had acquired a strange – and false – reputation of each of her clients committing suicide. Tara couldn't have known her fate if she'd hired Lydia – she'd just moved in from Salisbury. Sherlock presented his screen to Lestrade, announcing that he'd found the murderer. After reading through the article about the lovely Ms. Ingram, Lestrade ordered Sally and Anderson to get back to Scotland Yard immediately."She could be anywhere in London by now. Make sure no one else hires Lydia Ingram!"

Sherlock was the first to leave the flat and hail a cab before everyone else began to file out. He was rather disappointed the case didn't last longer than he'd expected. He hadn't been there for longer than ten minutes. Before he even realized it, the detective found himself in one of the rooms of his mind palace. He would often retreat there after a case. It gave him time to think, sort out the information and stow it away in his mind until needed again. Like Magnussen had the Appledore vaults, Sherlock kept the information he needed to know tucked away in the minds of the people he met in his mind palace. It was someone different each time, though generally Molly or his brother.

Today it was John. The retired army doctor stood in front of him with a stoicism he hadn't seen from him before, but the tired – no, exhausted – eyes were becoming something familiar to him. He wore a suit – no, the suit - the suit he wore on his wedding day.

"Good evening, Sherlock," John greeted. He sounded as tired as he looked as he stood there with an air of false attentiveness around him. His eyes stared out into space, yet he was looking directly at the detective. Something – no, everything – about the situation was bizarre.

"I don't usually see you in here," Sherlock pointed out, inspecting John up and down. "Although, I've been seeing you all day. What do you want?"

"A chat."

"We haven't talked in a while, John."

"That we haven't."

"So, what shall we chat about?"

"He's going to lose you again," John stated, his sudden cold stare resembling that of… "John? What a sorry sod he is. Says he's tired of losing you, but it turns out… Oh! You've lost him. How amusing. How does it feel, Sherlock?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock replied, keeping his calm façade about him.

"You've failed him, Sherlock. You've failed him," the doctor – his doctor – didn't sound like himself anymore. He didn't look… "You've failed him! No matter how many crimes you solve, you'll keep seeing him. You'll never be able to forget that you failed him!"

"Stop!" Sherlock screeched as the world around him spun and tilted, morphing instead into that cell he kept James Moriarty deeply hidden and locked inside of. John was gone again. Just pain in his place. He struggled to keep up his façade and stay on his feet.

Moriarty stared up at the detective like a puppy away from home. "You're drifting apart. He's losing you, Sherlock. You're losing him. Bitter, isn't it?"

"Enough," Sherlock barked through gritted teeth.

"It's okay, Sherlock. That's what people do."

He escaped the cell and woke up abruptly in the back seat of the cab he'd hailed just a few minutes earlier. Moriarty hadn't killed him; he was safe. John was safe. Nightmares like these were becoming commonplace after John moved in with Mary. There was nothing to worry about. He jumped as his phone signaled to him that he'd received a text from Mrs. Hudson.

 _Will be away for a while. Hired a maid, don't be surprised. – H_

The detective tried to ignore the loud pounding of his heart and the hot tears threatening to leak from his eyes. He allowed the irritation for his landlady to mask it. His pain. He rolled his wet eyes and held the bridge of his nose with two fingers, rapidly typing a retort back at her.

 _I don't need a maid. – SH_

 _Your flat is disastrous. Yes, you do. – H_

 _Couldn't you do it yourself? – SH_

 _I'm not your housekeeper. – H_

John chuckled and nodded, retelling Sherlock that he mustn't bicker with Mrs. Hudson. As much as the detective despised to admit it, there was no winning a quarrel with the kindly landlady. He shook his head. John wasn't there. Damn. He continued on to more pressing matters, diverting his gaze back to his phone.

 _What's her name? - SH_

 _Lydia. She's lovely. Don't give her a hard time. – H_

Oh. Sherlock brought his hand down away from his face, hyper aware of the situation unfolding around him. The War at 221B was neverending, and a new battle was just beginning. He stopped the cab, paying the cabbie without bothering to retrieve the change.

 _Is she at the flat yet? – SH_

 _Probably not. – H_

If he could get to the flat before her, he could phone Scotland Yard and have her arrested there. The game was on. His legs transported him as fast as they could go, and he didn't pause to phone Lestrade to tell him that Lydia Ingram would be at 221B Baker Street.

As the wind blew through Sherlock's curls and his long Belstaff coat, the detective felt elated. He told himself, the case wasn't over yet. John yelled and told him to slow down, struggling to keep up with the detective. He stopped in his tracks, making sure that John could catch up. But he wouldn't. John still wasn't there. Sherlock cursed and continued on his race against time itself.

 _John. Help. Please. 221B. – SH_


	2. Trouble

John could count three times he said his final goodbye to Sherlock Holmes. The first was his fall off of Bart's. The second was the near-fatal incident with Mary and a gun. The third was on the tarmac. Three too many times John almost lost his consulting detective, his best friend. Something about the fact was poetic, he was sure, but he couldn't deduce what.

After a long day at the surgery, he'd decided to spend the rest of it with Mary, watching crap telly and imagining Sherlock Holmes were there, yelling in frustration and criticizing the entire plotline of the show. He leaned into Mary, resting his head on her shoulder, feeling like a happy, normal couple with her for a single moment. Somehow the reminder of the things she had done kept finding its way back into his brain. There were things that couldn't be forgiven, but he wanted to work it out. He wanted things to be like they were before that bastard of a detective walked back into his life with a fake mustache and French accent. The love was there, he knew, but it would never be the same as before.

During a particularly long commercial break that made his eyes droop, John's mobile chimed. It was the ringtone he'd chosen for Sherlock before the fall – a quick, echoing beep.

 _John. Help. Please. 221B. – SH_

"Oh, God," John muttered, placing a hand over his mouth. "Mary, I h… I have to go."

He got up from his spot, and Mary protested to make an attempt to sit him back down. Before she could say a word, John was already pulling on his coat.

"What's the matter?" she asked, pulling the blanket over his spot on her shoulder.

"Sherlock's in trouble," John breathed, heart pounding with worry more and more with each button on his coat buttoned. That bloody idiot, always getting into trouble. The detective was right. John was attracted to dangerous people and situations. The thrill of the chase, the exhilaration of battle, the adrenaline to war.

Mary grabbed his phone off of him and read the vague text from the detective. Her brow furrowed as she gave him a look that gave him permission to leave. John thanked her, planting a hurried kiss on her forehead, and walked out the door without another word. He hailed a cab as he tried to control his heavy breathing and hammering heart.

Climbing into the backseat, John told the cabbie, "Baker Street." Anytime Sherlock Holmes said please, there would almost always be danger ahead. John looked down at his phone, reading the text over and over again. Despite his rapid heartbeat and labored breathing, his hands weren't shaking.

 _On my way. Are you OK? – JW_

 _Maybe. I'll explain later. – SH_

"God, Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into now?" John sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

"You okay, mate?" the cabbie asked, suspiciously peering at John through the rear-view mirror. John assured him everything was fine, but the worry still nagged at him. Mary didn't live too far from Baker Street. It would be okay. His mind wandered to possibilities of what the situation really was. Was Sherlock in pain? Had he gotten attacked? Was something going on with a case? There's no knowing with Sherlock Holmes. He'd learned that long ago.

* * *

With heavy, pounding steps, Sherlock sprinted up the steps to his flat. He prepared himself for whatever situation he would find himself in, whether it be waiting for the maid or encountering her. The door creaked when he opened it, which was the first sign: She hadn't arrived yet.

Sherlock still made his way into the flat with caution, carefully putting one foot in front of the other and searching the room. He grasped the gun in his coat pocket. John put his hand on his shoulder to warm him. No, he didn't. The sound of a door slamming came from downstairs, echoing through the flat for a moment. Sherlock pulled out his gun.

"Ms. Ingram," he greeted with a false, warm smile as the maid entered the flat. She had short, blonde hair and wrinkled skin, most of which was hidden by her uniform. Her dark brown eyes bore a hole through the detective's skull.

"Hudson?" Lydia inquired, setting down her bag. _Mother of two. Experienced. Small dog. Divorced._

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock corrected. He held out his hand to her. "My landlady called you."

"I've heard of you," she said, looking him up and down. _Guilty. Can't support family._ "You're the 'consulting detective', eh?"

"I suppose I'll get out of your way then," Sherlock decided. John nudged him. No. "Mrs. Hudson left some food in the fridge."

"Actually," Lydia called as he made his way to his bedroom, making him pause in his tracks. "Would you mind making a cuppa? I'm parched." Sherlock turned back around, eyeing her like she did to him. _Murderer. Ruthless_. Lydia Ingram's clients were all found to have committed suicide. She was clever. She could make it look believable. But Tara's was different. Nobody stabs themselves to death. Lydia changed her style. Why? _Dying._

With a wider false smile, he agreed, "Of course." Behind his back, he grabbed his phone.

 _Might need an ambulance. – SH_

* * *

When the cab pulled into Baker Street, police cars were already lined up outside of 221B. The cabbie cracked a joke, but John was out of the car before he could register it. Donovan approached the army doctor, a walkie-talkie in one of her hands.

"What's going on here?" he asked, afraid that his heart would pound out of his chest. "Sherlock texted me. Said he needed help."

"Murderer," Donovan replied bluntly, listening to Lestrade's orders through the transceiver. John's heart skipped a hammering beat, thousands of odds racing through his mind at once. He could count three times he'd said his final goodbyes to Sherlock Holmes. The first was his fall off Bart's. The second was the near-fatal incident with Mary and a gun. The third was the several minutes on the tarmac. He didn't want to have to do it again.

"He's in there," he muttered, "with a murderer? Why isn't anyone going in there?"

"Didn't want us to." Before John could retort, his phone rang with Sherlock's text notification again.

 _john – SH_

His knees almost buckled out from underneath him. He jolted Donovan, begging her to make someone go inside. Like the day Sherlock jumped, the world around him spun. Worry clouded his mind. He felt sick. Sherlock was okay. Sherlock was okay, right?

Lestrade caught John's eye, and he ordered the men around him to do something and gestured for the army doctor to approach him.

 _john, help – SH_

The door to 221B opened and armed men entered, which allowed John some composedness. "What's going on?"

"We brought in Sherlock to investigate the death of Tara Donaldson," Lestrade began. John had heard about her death on the news. "She was killed by a serial killer, a maid-for-hire that makes each of her clients' deaths look like a suicide."

"Yeah?"

"Sherlock's landlady… hired her."

"Oh, God."

 _please – SH_


	3. Bloody Idiot

i wrote this a while ago before season 4 came out, so.

mary's still alive, whoops

* * *

Sherlock watched the maid intently as he made her tea. She wiped down the dining table, lifting the experiment equipment as needed, setting it back down afterward. What Mrs. Hudson and John could learn from her, Sherlock thought. He dipped the bag of Earl Grey into the cup of boiled water.

Lydia then moved onto the countertops, putting dirty dishes and bowls into the sink. Sherlock noticed her glancing briefly at the contents of the drawers and cupboards as she went on. _Looking for knives?_

She seemed to linger in the kitchen. She was waiting for something – a cue.

"Do you take sugar?" he asked, turning his body towards the maid. She had been closer than he calculated and was there to punch him in the gut. Why would she..? Oh. How stupid he'd been. Loud alarms blared in his head as he felt the sensation of an electric shock pierce in his abdomen.

John screamed his name, putting his hand on his shoulder to support him as he slid down the cabinets behind him.

The housekeeper appeared transparently unapologetic as she whispered, "Sorry, Mr. Holmes."

She twisted the knife and walked away, leaving the wounded detective to his own devices. His mind palace swarmed with people there to assist him and time around him froze. John wasn't one of them. Molly appeared in his place, hissing in his ear.

"Sherlock, you've been stabbed. We've been over this before – you're most likely going to die, so we need to make this quick. Blood loss will kill you first." Anderson looked him over with a glance. "She stabbed you, likely, in the small intestine. There's a chance she could have hit a major blood vessel. If the bleeding isn't too profuse, you should be fine." Sherlock looked at the hand that was covering the wound, looking up at Molly when he registered that it was painted in blood. Loud alarms continued to resound.

"If you don't treat the wound immediately, you'll lose too much blood," Molly explained. "Surely you have something in this kitchen that can stitch up a wound."

"Brother dear," Mycroft groaned. "Improper treatment can make the wound infected. You're being stupid again. Maximum backup is right outside your door. What are they waiting for?"

"Something to happen," the younger Holmes brother said. His abdomen burned like someone was pressing a hot branding iron into his navel.

"No, they're waiting for Lydia Ingram to arrive."

 _"Is she in the flat now?" Lestrade had asked over the phone._

 _"I don't know. I'll go in and let you know."_

"Let them know."

 _john – SH_

* * *

Two minutes. It took John two minutes to register the situation when he walked into the hospital room. He'd spent what seemed like ages doing Sherlock's paperwork for the second time in three months and he was exhausted – physically and mentally. He laid his eyes on Sherlock, comatose and hooked up to machines, wondering what made this man so prone to almost dying.

Almost.

The detective's voice echoed in his head, "John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people."

Maybe that was it. It's what kept him on edge. Almost. Almost keeps you on the edge of your seat. Almost gives John Watson, the adrenaline junkie, a fix.

The doctor with the clipboard approached John, making a joke about how the detective had been there not that long ago. It took John a second to snap back into reality, and he began to laugh along. He couldn't tell if it was genuine laughter.

"He's been through a lot recently, huh?" she said, her eyes on Sherlock. "He's very lucky, Dr. Watson. The knife came very close to the aorta. Even still, he got stabbed in the safest place to get stabbed in the abdomen."

Her words trailed off in John's mind.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then. Visiting hours end at 2000."

Sherlock paid no mind to John when he plopped into one of the bedside chairs. He found it funny that all of the machines attached to the so-called machine on the bed made him look so human. Why did he always find himself in this position? Sitting at the bedside of a dying consulting detective. It was almost a common thing at this point.

Almost.

The doctor's heart was heavy. Too much was going on at once. Too much was going through his mind. He wished the arsehole on the bed in front of him wasn't so prone to danger. And he wished he wasn't so attracted to it. Bloody hell. What was it? Danger or Sherlock? His heart wasn't only heavy but confused too. Confused, broken, and conflicted.

Mary was the woman he married. Mary was the woman he loved. But Mary was the woman who shot his best friend and put all three of them – including her own self – through hell. John and Mary were bound together in marriage, but he felt their bond built in love had fallen down with Sherlock the night Mary fired that gun. John found his baffled heart drifting towards his friend. His aching heart looked for comfort in the human falling rock zone, which shouldn't confuse him at all.

John loved danger, and by default, John loved Sherlock Holmes.

"You're here."

Sherlock's half-lidded, ice blue eyes were fixed on John. His hand was on the morphine tap, most likely turning them down.

"And you're up."

"Obviously."

John laughed. Then he cried. The doctor put his face in his hands, his shoulders bouncing as sobs racked his body. Sherlock sat and stared. Hesitating.

"John, I…" He paused. "I'm sorry if I-…"

"No," John intervened. He never looked up. "Don't." A hand touched John's, and it took a double-take to realize that it was Sherlock's.

"Are you okay, John?"

"No." Sherlock snickered, lying back down on the pillows with a grimace.

"Me neither."

"You need to stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Getting yourself into danger."

"You know I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because that's why you're my friend," Sherlock admitted. John shook his head, so many emotions clogging his thoughts. The tears continued to run down his cheeks.

"No, it's not, you bloody idiot."

"Of course it is. You're addicted to a certain lifestyle, John; we've been over this-!" Sherlock's sentence was brought to an abrupt end with the retired army doctor's lips pressed against his. His eyes enlarged as John grasped his hospital gown. John went numb when Sherlock put his hand on his. The feelings that he'd possessed flooded out of his body and through his fingertips on the detective's skin. He hadn't been so… okay in quite a while.

Sherlock tensed up so John backed away. The wide blue eyes seemed to hold all the emotions that had escaped John. Confusion, confliction… yet there was one more he couldn't describe.

John swore internally. Sherlock had told him before. He's married to his work. He's not interested in romance. Oh dear God

"John."

"Sherlock, I am so sorry, I didn't mean-!"

"John."

He didn't dare to breathe. The room was silent. If it weren't for the beeping monitors, he could've sworn that he could hear Sherlock's heartbeat.

"What, Sherlock?"

"Come here."

"I'm right here."

"I said, 'come here.'"

John leaned in. "What?"

With a hesitant lean forward, Sherlock returned the favor.


End file.
